


A Taste of You

by Skaldic_Jedi



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Banter, Caffeine Withdrawal, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Romance, Eventual kissing, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Black Eagles Route, Humor, Implied/Referenced Sex, M/M, Pining, Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Sexual Tension, first time writing this ship!, shades of it anyway
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-08
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:22:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26351869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skaldic_Jedi/pseuds/Skaldic_Jedi
Summary: In war, there are always casualties. When the Empire’s supply lines are interrupted, resulting in a severe coffee and tea shortage, Hubert and Ferdinand are forced to confront the extent of their addiction to caffeine—and each other.
Relationships: Ferdinand von Aegir & Hubert von Vestra, Ferdinand von Aegir/Hubert von Vestra
Comments: 27
Kudos: 94





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blueapplesour](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueapplesour/gifts).



> This is a departure from my normal Dimileth content, and a great deal more lighthearted and playful, but the idea bit and I couldn't resist. Regular Dimileth content shall resume shortly!
> 
> Dedicated to blueapplesour who got me into this ship!
> 
> Part 1 of 3 (probably).

Edelgard is the one who delivers the news. Bad, naturally. Hubert supposes he will drop dead of surprise the day his empress actually delivers good news. Not that he would allow any such report to go unexamined for hidden dangers and unforeseen repercussions. Every silver lining contains a hint of lead, after all.

Hubert listens patiently as Edelgard tells him much of what he already knows. It is important for her to feel party to this war as much off the battlefield as on it. Faerghus forces have been harassing their supply lines on the continent for weeks, resulting in interruptions to many of their dietary staples, while Almyran pirates have been disappearing shipments from Brigid and Dagda. It is a nuisance, albeit an expected one. Every war is a war of attrition: the army with the most is the army that lasts. 

“I will implement further rationing, as needed,” Hubert assures his empress, already calculating which nobles he can pinch without too much objection. “The capital can go without in order to see our soldiers clothed and fed abroad.”

“I’m glad we are in agreement,” Edelgard says, and Hubert has already bent into a parting bow when she adds, “as I have already sent our last shipment of both coffee and tea to the troops near Arianrhod and Myrddin.”

 _Our last shipment_.

He freezes on those words, eyes widening a crack. Hubert raises himself slowly, pulling in a tight, barely perceptible breath. “Apologies, Your Majesty. If I may ask a rather obvious point of clarification?”

“You may.”

“Did you include the royal stores in that shipment?”

“Indeed,” Edelgard says, in the same tone as _of course_. With that single confirmation, Hubert feels his heart—what remains of that hard and blackened thing—drop through him like a heavy stone hefted into a deep lake. He almost doesn’t hear the remainder of his lady’s explanation, lost in private calculations regarding the burnt dregs at the bottom of the percolator back in his private apartment. “Ladislava has developed a rather ingenious strategy of serving coffee to her troops an hour before battle. She claims it sharpens them, helps them maintain their focus on the field far exceeding normal limits. Truly, I think there may be something to it, given their recent victories.”

“And the tea?” Hubert asks, thinking of no one in particular.

“There was not enough coffee. Although not as effective, the tea was deemed acceptable to augment the lack of the former. Those blends without stimulating properties can still provide comfort. A reminder of home to those far away and fighting for it. I hope you are not too displeased.” Her brow knits in that way it does when she is concerned, but trying not to show it. “I realize how much of a sacrifice this will be for you.”

“Giving up a limb is a sacrifice, Your Majesty. This is merely wartime austerity.”

Her expression smooths out into a small smile. “Thank you, Hubert. I fear others will not be as understand—”

“ _EDELGARD!_ ” 

Ferdinand’s sonorous voice precedes his appearance by mere seconds. His determined stride results in distinct clicks against the courtyard’s cobblestone tiles as he approaches. So rarely has Hubert seen Ferdinand out of his riding boots that he is half convinced the man sleeps in them. But it is not a query he lets himself linger on for too long, lest his comprehensive imagination make a thorough accounting of the scene. 

“Good afternoon, Ferdinand.” Her Majesty greets him with far more diplomacy than Hubert would have. That is why she is empress, and he is not, beyond the chance of their birth. Poison is so much easier than politics. Not that he has considered poisoning Ferdinand... often.

“I hardly agree!” Ferdinand replies, perfectly offended by the innocuous welcome. “May I walk you through my day thus far? First,” he does not bother waiting for consensus, “I am woken at my usual hour but instead of receiving my typical blend, steeped _just so_ to bring out all of the right notes, I am delivered warm milk. _Milk_! Naturally, I am curious. I ask my attendant to explain the meaning of this strange and unexpected substitution only to be informed that there is no tea. None. The entire capital—nay, the entire southeastern portion of the empire is without a single caffeinated leaf!”

Hubert can’t help poking the bear. “Did you try for coffee?”

“As a matter of fact, yes.” His prior hysterics forgotten, Ferdinand turns serious as he steps toward Hubert. _Too close,_ Hubert thinks belatedly. _Much too_ — The nobleman’s hand falls upon his shoulder, and Hubert’s heart momentarily revives from the soles of his feet, each beat threatening him with more feeling. Ferdinand’s expression is full of genuine regret. “Hubert, I have terrible news.”

“I shall steel myself.” 

No, what Hubert _should_ do is move out from under the younger man’s hand, but something in him has stilled beneath Ferdinand’s touch. His mind, always going, always cycling through the horrific potential of every moment, has measurably quieted. This must be how Ferdinand calms his horses. That comparison should chafe, but he knows Ferdinand is merely caring for him, and to be perfectly honest, his thoughts have already strayed again, descending like vultures onto the feast of images surrounding that time he and Ferdinand met in the stables. Alone. It had happened only once, years ago, and they had never spoken of it since. But it leaves him to wonder, what other unexpected effects might Ferdinand’s hands have on him now, applied elsewhere on his person?

“Did you hear me, Hubert? The coffee,” Ferdinand is saying, his wide brown eyes narrowed and sorrowful, “it’s all gone, too. I’m so sorry.”

Hubert is fortunate that Ferdinand and Edelgard are both accustomed to his visible signs of annoyance, so that when he applies his fingers to the bridge of his nose in order to rein in his inappropriate imaginings, neither makes comment.

Except for Ferdinand, a moment later, who exclaims with sudden revelation, “Oh, no! It’s happening already.”

“What is?” Edelgard asks.

“I believe it’s called withdrawal. It begins with headaches. Next comes nausea, explosions of dark temper and irritability. Though I suppose the latter may be harder to discern in some as in others. Eh, Hubert?” He flashes Hubert a sly smile that would be charming if it wasn’t usually preceded by such obnoxious foppery.

“Yes,” Hubert agrees dryly. “I’m sure no one from House Aegir would ever stoop to such undignified drama.”

Edelgard steps in before Ferdinand can summon a retort, raising a ceasefire hand. “Can I trust that my most trusted advisors will be able to get along if I leave, or must I stay and supervise you both like children?”

Both he and Ferdinand agree to play nice, in so many words, and then his lady departs. To her credit, Edelgard casts only one skeptical glance backward at them. 

As soon as Edelgard has vanished, the two men immediately round on one another.

“Undignified drama?” Ferdinand says.

“So you find me irritable?” Hubert folds his arms in front of his chest.

“You _are_ irritable!”

“Only when I am given cause to be. Meanwhile, you would subject us both to the lie of your perfect temperament?”

“ _Passionate_ ,” Ferdinand corrects, stepping toward him. “I am passionate! But of course I wouldn’t expect you to understand what it’s like to care about anything or anyone outside of the war and Edelgard. Your veins must be packed with ice. I wonder if there’s even enough warm blood in you to still—”

Hubert lifts a brow as Ferdinand cuts off, his cheeks flushed.

“Please,” Hubert says in a low voice. “By all means, finish your thought.”

Ferdinand is standing so near that when he exhales, his breath tantalizes Hubert’s lips. Hubert himself does not breathe. Does not move. He can remember only a single occasion in which his father took him hunting as a boy. His stillness was a credit to him that day, his ability to postpone every bodily need in order to secure the kill. Alas, the slaughter of innocent creatures held no appeal, but he came away from that trip having learned a very different, and no less vital lesson. 

The value of patience.

It would be all too easy to make the first move. Eliminate that last bit of space between them by gripping the back of Ferdinand’s neck, trapping his thick red mane under his palm as he draws him in. (Is his hair as soft as it looks, as lovingly tended to as everything else in Ferdinand’s life? Hubert has wondered.) And when their bodies are finally aligned, lips tangled in that most ancient fight, will he taste as sweet as that Southern Fruit Blend he is obsessed with?

But he would rather wait. Wait for Ferdinand to come to him.

“No,” Ferdinand finally says, backing away. He is still blushing bright pink. Hubert can only guess at what delicious audacities he was imagining for them just now. “I think we’ve both said quite enough. It would be unseemly to continue this discussion where we might be overheard. I will not have it said that Ferdinand von Aegir squabbles in public like a common lout.”

“In private then?”

He is only teasing, but Ferdinand’s lengthy pause makes him wonder if the man is more amenable than he lets on to the idea of continuing this—whatever _this_ is—back at one of their apartments.

Finally, he shakes his head, as if emerging from the fog of a dream. “You mock me, as ever. But we shall see who has the last laugh in a week. I grant that you will not last two days before withdrawal has you breaking down doors, searching for contraband grinds on hands and knees. To say nothing of the tax your constant late nights will finally exact on your body.”

Hubert lets several inelegant responses pass through his mind before replying, “Such exaggeration. Surely it will not be as bad as all that.”

“Good luck, Hubert,” Ferdinand says with finality, and as he strides out, as intently as he came, a hint of unease passes over Hubert like a crosswind.

Later that evening, his first headache begins.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hubert’s brows knit and then release so quickly Ferdinand is almost convinced he imagined it. “Is everything all right? One would expect a more jovial demeanor from Ferdinand von Aegir on his twentieth birthday.”
> 
> Ferdinand’s heart kicks. “You remembered.”
> 
> “Of course I remembered,” Hubert says softly, as if this should be a given between them. “Nothing about you is forgettable.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew! This chapter turned out much longer than anticipated, but I hope you enjoy! 
> 
> What happened in the stables, finally revealed...
> 
> (Also, I'm adding a few more tags and upping the content rating to Mature because Ferdinand and Hubert can't keep their hands to themselves. Implied sex ahead!)

**_Enbarr - Four Years Ago_ **

When he receives the late-evening summons to the stables, Ferdinand does his best to act nonchalant. Oh, they need _his_ help, do they? The stables, is it? Right now? The poor sap Edelgard employed for this little charade wasn't even provided a better excuse than "General von Bergliez is threatening to fight one of the horses. Please hurry, my lord."

As if Caspar would be so foolish as to challenge an animal at least three times his size. 

As if one of Ferdinand's own horses—bred with the utmost dignity and sense of purpose—would degrade its calling by accepting such a barbaric challenge. 

_Absurd._

He assures the stable man that he will come forthwith to address such a serious conflict, but as soon as the man leaves ahead of him, Ferdinand hurries instead back into his room. He drags a brush through his hair, caught at that awkward length between short and long, and fights to secure the most ambitious strands inside a blue ribbon. 

Thankfully, all he requires is that little touch-up. He’s already dressed for a celebration in his favorite ivory club collar and red tapestry waistcoat, the latter still so new it’s as stiff as a corset. It was a small bother wearing such finery all day in anticipation of his surprise, especially during muggy spring, but when one is a true noble, one must look nothing short of resplendent on his name day. The sweat stains will doubtless come out in the wash eventually.

On his way to the royal stables, Ferdinand prepares his best look of surprise, not wanting to spoil the efforts of his friends. He's scarcely seen the shadow of another person all day, and of those few members of the strike force he did encounter, not one wished him a happy birthday. Petra smiled at him as they passed each other in the hall but she smiled at everyone. Dorothea barely looked up from her book when he'd entered the royal library, and Linhardt had pretended to be asleep when Ferdinand had asked if he had any exciting plans later. Or maybe Linhardt _had_ been asleep. It is often hard to tell, one way or another.

If anything, it almost feels like his friends have forgotten his birthday altogether...

Except that is precisely what those helping to organize a secret party would want him to think! Ferdinand, of course, will play along. He is nothing if not a good sport.

The royal stables are surprisingly dark. But of course his friends must have somewhere to hide. An aisle wide enough to fit a carriage bisects the two sides of the main stable, and Ferdinand watches his step with absent familiarity, mindful of any messy leavings. His boots are the only unpolished part of him, often caked in mud and grass, and that’s how he likes it. So often, Ferdinand has been made to feel out-of-touch with how the other half live, and this he thinks makes him more approachable. Although, maybe by assuming that, it only serves to distance himself from the point he is trying to make. It hurts his head to think about for too long.

Soft sigil light stars each door on either side of the stable, just under the metal placards where the names of the horses are written. He waits for guests to jump out from behind the closed stall doors, but no one does.

Ferdinand clears his throat. “Hello? I have arrived to solve a dispute between General von Berliez and a horse?”

 _Really, Edelgard_ , he thinks with a slight smile. _You could not have come up with a better excuse than that?_ She should have employed her spy master. Surely Hubert would have developed a more clever ploy. Well, at least she chose an appropriate location. Ferdinand has always loved horse stables, and the royal stables have been a particular source of comfort and peace to him as this war has gone on.

The heads of several curious mares answer the sound of his voice, and Ferdinand rubs one along her long face. “I don’t suppose you know where the party is at?” he whispers to her.

“My Lord Ferdinand!” calls the same man as before, coming alongside with a rushed bow. “This way, please.”

Ferdinand smiles and then catches himself. _Mustn’t look too excited, Ferdinand, or you’ll give the game away_. He tries, instead, to appear serious as he follows the man’s lead toward the opposite end of the stable. The royal stables are shaped in a hard-angled horseshoe, and it isn’t until he turns that first corner that he spots Linhardt.

“... Caspar,” Linhardt is saying in his favorite long-suffering tone, “Once again, the horse has not said anything about your mother.”

“Oho! So now you’re on _his_ side?” barks a voice from one of the stalls. It certainly _sounds_ like Caspar, but Ferdinand cannot yet see the young man.

“Linhardt?” Ferdinand cuts in. “What—?” 

He cuts off as he finally catches sight of Caspar, standing on the separator between two of the stalls, balancing with clear unease and in way too much armor than this occasion calls for. Most puzzling is the small horse brush he’s waving back and forth like a broadsword, seemingly attempting to ward off the chestnut in the stall beside him—one of Ferdinand’s most well-behaved mares, Evangeline. Even now she is pointedly ignoring the soldier threatening her with a good brushing.

“Thank goodness,” Linhardt says. “Perhaps you can talk some sense into him.”

Ferdinand furrows his brows. “He really is fighting with a horse?”

“I was surprised, too,” Linhardt says. “Of all the side effects, I did not anticipate hallucinations. It’s fascinating, actually.”

“Side effects to what, precisely?”

“I have been testing a new variation of Fortify that would push fear from the mind of the spell recipient. But as you can see, I achieved results counter to my intent. I tried to keep him contained to his room while he rides out the worst of his delusions, but he is surprisingly slippery when sufficiently motivated.”

“And he believes Evangeline has insulted his honor?”

“His mother’s honor,” Linhardt corrects, “but yes.”

“Then…” Ferdinand blinks rapidly. “There’s no party?”

“Party for what?” Linhardt asks, but instead of waiting for a reply, he calls to his unhappy test subject. “Caspar! Ferdinand is here to settle the matter. Why don’t you let him talk to the horse?”

“Ferdinand?” Caspar says weakly.

“Yes, Caspar,” Ferdinand answers, just as weakly. “I’m here.” This is a surprise, but not the one he’d been expecting. His chest aches the same as when he’s suffering from a cold, and for a moment, he worries he is coming down with an illness on top of everything else. Then he realizes what this terrible feeling really is.

Disappointment.

“Ferdinand,” Caspar says through passionate tears, “If I fall in battle here tonight, will you tell my father? Tell him I fought bravely?”

He starts to explain that Evangeline is one horse, not the Holy King of Faerghus’ vanguard, but thinks better of it. Caspar is lost in the throes of his own delusion. Ferdinand knows a little of what that feels like.

“All right, Caspar,” he says patiently. “I will get you safely through tonight, I promise. Here’s what we’re going to do...”

#

Eventually, Ferdinand is able to persuade Caspar to come down, and Linhardt agrees to see him back to his room. The spell already seems to be wearing off as the pair depart, if Caspar’s quiet apology and fading flush are anything to go by. Ferdinand tries to procure a promise from Linhardt that he will cease testing his spells without careful supervision, but the best he receives is an indifferent shrug.

Then he is alone.

The thought of returning to his cold dark apartment and removing each article of fancy clothing is too depressing for words, so instead he wanders, letting time and the warm animal smell of the stables soften his heartbreak.

“I suspected I would find you here.” Ferdinand turns in time to catch the edge of Hubert’s smile as it disappears under his usual scowl. “Predictable as ever, aren’t we?”

If Ferdinand’s sadness had a shape, it would be a saddle too heavy for him to lift yet impossible for him to set down. He is in no shape for witty rapporte, and so instead of a clever retort, he says simply, “Yes, I suppose so.”

Hubert’s brows knit and then release so quickly Ferdinand is almost convinced he imagined it. “Is everything all right? One would expect a more jovial demeanor from Ferdinand von Aegir on his twentieth birthday.”

Ferdinand’s heart kicks. “You remembered.”

“Of course I remembered,” Hubert says softly, as if this should be a given between them. “Nothing about you is forgettable.”

His eyes begin to itch, tears threatening, but if starts crying, Ferdinand knows Hubert will never buy the cause as fresh hay when he has seen Ferdinand around stables all their lives. He smiles instead, difficult though it is, like threading a needle. _Smile, Ferdinand_ , his mother would say, if she were here now. _No one wants to watch a noble sniveling like a child. It’s pathetic._

His gratitude toward Hubert, however, is entirely sincere.

“Thank you for saying so.” Ferdinand accepts Hubert’s gesture to walk with him, and asks, “If I may, what keeps you out this late?”

“Oh, I rarely sleep through the night,” Hubert says.

“It’s all that coffee you drink.”

“Spoken as one who does not partake in a similar poison.”

“Tea is the farthest thing from poison!” Ferdinand objects. “Tea is tradition. Quiet ritual. A moment outside space and time where a person can breathe and just _be_. Poison. Hardly!”

“If you feel that strongly,” Hubert says, reaching into a pocket of his dark uniform, “then you will like your gift, I trust.”

For a moment, Ferdinand worried what exactly Hubert planned to withdraw, given his passion for poisons, daggers, and all things secret and deadly. So he is relieved when Hubert reveals a small spoon, burnished silver, with a decorative bow of twine around the handle. It is a fine thing, expertly made, Ferdinand can tell, even before Hubert presents it to him.

“Hubert...” he begins. What can he say about such a thoughtful gift? A tea spoon, of all things. It is simple, straightforward, and utterly perfect.

“At a loss for words?” Hubert smirks. “That might be a first. Look under the handle.”

Engraved on the back of the handle is the word: _ANTIDOTE_

Ferdinand wrinkles his brow. He doesn’t understand, but he also doesn’t want to admit as much, and risk Hubert thinking him a fool. Thankfully, Hubert takes the initiative and begins explaining before he has to ask.

“That spoon is coated in a special agent that will neutralize most common toxins. Stir it around any beverage for no less than fifteen seconds for the full effect. Additionally, be sure you do not wash it with any kind of soap. Hot water, only.” Ferdinand blinks—he is trying not to gape, but not quite sure he is succeeding—and a moment later, Hubert rolls his eyes. “And,” he adds in a half grumble, “it is so named as, in your case, tea seems to provide an antidote to the day’s ills.”

He has never seen Hubert embarrassed before, but he is almost certain that is what he is bearing witness to right this moment. The gift Hubert is truly giving him is an opening to humiliate him, if Ferdinand so chooses.

“This is a very thoughtful gift,” Ferdinand says, tucking the spoon into the breast pocket of his waistcoat, close to his heart. He lets his hand linger over it covetously as he approaches Hubert. “Thank you.”

The older man nods, eyes averted, as if even this small amount of gratitude makes him uncomfortable. “I know you ignore my advice and make seldom use of the imperial food taster. I would hate to lose you to some amateur poisoner.”

“Would you?” Ferdinand takes another step toward him. Maybe it is the privacy of the stables, everything made to feel closer by the darkness around them, but Ferdinand finds himself suddenly emboldened by Hubert’s subtle show of affection. He is glad he has worn his best for this occasion, after all, for Hubert’s gaze keeps returning to him, seemingly against the man’s own will.

“Yes,” Hubert confirms, not retreating, even as Ferdinand continues to draw near. “It would reflect poorly on my capacity as Her Majesty’s security advisor.”

“Mhm.”

“... and it would give others incentive to try for myself or Edelgard.”

“That does sound dire, indeed.”

“Ferdinand,” Hubert says, his normally deep voice even huskier.

“Hubert.”

“Did you want—”

But Ferdinand does not allow him to complete his sentence. Hubert is not that much taller than him, despite what his narrow black uniform would fool everyone’s eyes into believing, and Ferdinand does not have a difficult time reaching his lips. Their kiss is more of a crash, and not at all like the romantic clasp he pictured in his mind. Their teeth click from the force of Ferdinand’s enthusiasm, and Hubert is shocked stiff, giving not even a little against their surprise union.

Ferdinand immediately pulls back, fearing he has mistaken Hubert’s kindness for a more serious interest. “I’m sorry,” he begins to apologize, but Hubert’s hand is already at his waist, and then he’s turning them, as if in a dance. His movements are deliberate, sharp and sure. Ferdinand lets out a soft noise as his back meets the stable wall, but Hubert’s mouth is quickly on his again, devouring and unafraid.

It is everything Ferdinand has allowed himself to imagine, all those lonely nights in his room when he let his desperate infatuation activate his body. As Hubert presses against him now, he feels that hard, low hunger growing again, along with other… _parts_ , and he is not sure whether he would prefer Hubert not to notice his embarrassing desire, or if he’d rather the man do something to ease it.

Hubert’s gloved hand slides up to his throat, squeezing only a little, and Ferdinand is shocked by the groan that even so little pressure elicits from him. _Yes_ , he wants to say, _yes yes_. But Hubert’s tongue is in his mouth now, and words will have to wait.

“The stall,” Ferdinand pants when Hubert breaks long enough to press a kiss to the clean edge of his jaw. “On the right.”

“No,” Hubert says.

Ferdinand wrinkles his brow. Is Hubert reconsidering? “No?”

“Here,” he challenges.

“In the open? What if someone—?”

“We have the shadows,” he says, and Ferdinand is about to object when he feels Hubert’s hand cup the bulging front of his trousers. All coherent thought flies from his head, replaced by hot instinct as he moves against Hubert’s fingers. “That is all we need.”

 _That is all_ you _need_ , Ferdinand thinks, but it is a passing thought, absent as a dream upon waking. And the last one he has before Hubert moves to his knees.

* * *

**_Enbarr - Now_ **

The stables around midday stink to high heaven, the clean leather smell of fresh tack—one of Ferdinand’s favorite smells in the world—replaced with the overpowering stench of burnt hair. The horses are being shod in preparation of an upcoming battle, and if he had his way, he would rather be anywhere than here today.

But something of his has gone missing. Something with incredible personal value.

“By chance, has anyone reported finding a spoon around here?” He starts to approximate the size of the tiny utensil, only to discover his hands shaking. Quickly, he drops his arms back to his sides. Breakfast. He should have had more breakfast, that is all. This has nothing whatsoever to do with three days without tea, three days without that most precious morning and late afternoon lift to his spirits.

“A—spoon, sir?” The stable hand looks at him, puzzled. “Not many spoons around here.”

“No,” Ferdinand agrees. “There aren’t. This one is… well, not special, not so much anymore. But it is part of a private collection, you see. I sometimes carry it with me, and I think I may have dropped it here the other day while mounting up. It has an engraving that says—”

“Sorry, sir,” the boy interrupts, already moving back toward his work. “Haven’t seen it. Boss gets mad if she catches me standing around talking, so I should really…”

Ferdinand nods, applying a patient smile to his lips. “Of course. But if you or anyone you know comes across it…?”

“We’ll be sure it finds its way back to you!” he calls over his shoulder, hurrying off.

 _Somehow I doubt that_. In Ferdinand’s sad experience, when something was lost, it remained that way forever.

He should have known better than to carry the spoon around like some lovesick boy, clutching it to him like a talisman, the only proof of affection from a certain unnamed soul that he had. Its more useful properties had since worn off, but it still served perfectly well as a tea stirrer. Alas, seeing as he had no tea to stir, and thus no use for it back at his apartment, it had seemed like a harmless decision to bring it with him through the day. 

Right up until the point he discovered it missing from his right trouser pocket.

Spending the better part of the afternoon retracing his steps in an attempt to locate the spoon initially seemed like a decent use of his time, but now with a headache developing behind his eyes and the tremors starting in his hands, he finds his mood dipping toward dark and unpleasant territory. He searches for an appropriate word to describe it and lands on _grouchy_. Ferdinand feels grouchy. Moreover, he feels grouchy about feeling grouchy.

And there are still days left where he might feel like this, or worse, by most medical estimates.

It is not right. It is unfair. It is—

Ferdinand comes to an abrupt stop just outside the stables, noticing a lanky creature slouched in the shade beneath the long stable roof, gripping onto a derelict horse feeder as if for dear life.

No. Not a creature, as such.

“Hubert?”

On a normal day, Hubert looks sun- and sleep-deprived, and often more than a little dangerous, but right now he appears downright feral. His pale features make the bags under his eyes stand out like bruises, and his hair can best be described as wild. He hasn’t shaved; hasn’t, it seemed, even attempted it. There is a dead look in his eyes, as if he is somewhere else, past the horizon of his own suffering.

It requires Ferdinand speaking his name a second time for Hubert to acknowledge him. Even then, his head does not move, so much as his eyes roll toward Ferdinand with painful slowness.

“You look... unwell,” Ferdinand says.

“Your powers of observation are truly astounding.”

Must Hubert always respond to sincerity with sarcasm? “Yes, well.” Ferdinand is too emotionally sore already to deal with Hubert’s surliness, so instead of cracking back, he merely turns on his heel. “Good day, then.”

“Wait,” Hubert groans.

Goddess help him, Ferdinand waits.

Hubert slowly drags himself into a standing position, or the nearest thing he can achieve at the moment. He shields his eyes against the sun, wincing as he steps clear of the roof’s shade. “I did not mean to bite,” he says in a rare apology. That gets Ferdinand’s attention, and he turns back to face him more directly. “It’s this damnable headache.”

A man of lesser nobility could have used this opportunity to remind Hubert that he had been right about the symptoms of caffeine withdrawal. But Ferdinand held back. There was nothing to be gained from kicking Hubert when he was already down.

“Have you had any water today?” Ferdinand asks instead. “Have you eaten anything? When was the last time you slept?”

Hubert stares at him for a long moment, eyes narrowed in what Ferdinand has learned is mere consideration and not always suspicious, as he once thought. “How do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Always manage to be so…” he searches for the word, “bright. _Caring_ ,” he adds, and Ferdinand thinks he might be the only person in the world who could make a compliment sound like an insult. “It’s unnatural.”

“For a noble, it is an honor and a pleasure to look after those in need.”

Hubert makes a grumpy, disgusted noise.

“Come on,” Ferdinand says, deciding a sterner hand is required here. Bravely, he collects Hubert’s arm. The last time they were this close in the stables… He reins in his thoughts before they drift back toward those beautiful, unspeakable moments they’d spent together. They must move forward. “I’m sure the sunlight isn’t helping. And what is that sour smell? Is that you?”

Hubert tenses but then relaxes inside Ferdinand’s grip, and soon his hand has folded over Ferdinand’s—clammy, but strong. He nods back toward the horse feeder he was cradling earlier. “That will need to be cleaned. As a point of fact, I did eat today. Unfortunately, it did not have the intended effect.”

“Water, food, then sleep,” Ferdinand prescribes. “And I must ask, what were you doing at the stables? This is the last place I’d expect find you lurking today.”

“Ah. That. I was looking for you, as a matter of fact.” Hubert fumbles in his pocket and then presses something small and hard to Ferdinand’s chest. “Unless you intended to throw it out, I think you may have dropped this.”

Ferdinand barely catches the item in time as Hubert brings his hand away. His eyes widen as he stares down at the tea spoon, the handle engraving almost worn smooth from years of use.

Ferdinand begins to ask where Hubert found it, before realizing it doesn’t matter. He covers the question by clearing his throat. “I had been looking for this, yes. Thank you for returning it.”

Hubert nods. “It’s unlikely to be effective now, after so many years.”

“I know,” Ferdinand says quietly. “That isn’t why I’ve kept it.”

Sometimes the space between them feels as fraught as a mirror of jagged glass, occupied by so many unspoken feelings, it could shatter at the slightest touch.

But as they journey in silence toward the kitchens of the imperial palace, their shoulders glancing off one another, Ferdinand thinks maybe there is no glass. No mirror. Just a mirage shaped by heat and desire, and a distance not half so vast as he thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be at least one more chapter to finish out the story, hopefully coming soon.
> 
> And thank you to everyone who has left kudos and comments! <3

**Author's Note:**

> To be continued!
> 
> (Fun historical fact: serving coffee to soldiers was actually a real strategy used by generals during the American Civil War!)
> 
> twitter: @Skaldic_Jedi


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